


KOOL: A Rooster Cocoa-Brawn Adventure

by CPericardium, xbritomartx



Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Cauldron, Comedy, Gen, Illustrated, Pure Crack, Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-01-26 14:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12559828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CPericardium/pseuds/CPericardium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/xbritomartx/pseuds/xbritomartx
Summary: The year is 1986. You are REBECCA COSTA-BROWN, and you are DYING OF CANCER when you receive a TEMPTING OFFER from a MYSTERIOUS LIAR and a CREEPY CHILD!!This features the text and pictures (minutes votes and commentary) from a Worm Quest on Spacebattles, which can be found here: https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/kool-a-rooster-cocoa-brawn-quest-illustrated-worm-quest-humor.568714/The co-QM/artist's deviantart is located here: https://cpericardium.deviantart.com/





	1. 1.1: Mucho Leukemia

**August 20, 1986**

 

Your name is Rebecca Costa-Brown, you are barely fifteen years old, and you just found out you are days, if not hours, from dying of leukemia.

You are taking the news badly. You're crying. You have to, even though it hurts.

You mourn the life you will never have. The cats you will never see again, the boys you will never kiss, the books you will never read, the movies you will never see, the hamburgers you will never eat.

The cred you will never get.

Your futile struggles to come to grips with your imminent demise are interrupted. Someone you don't know, a black woman dressed like a doctor but who doesn't wear a nametag and who has a white kid in knee-high socks following her around, asks if you want morphine. It's not really a question; you say no but you get it anyway.

There were presentations in school about people like this. People who come out of nowhere and push drugs on unsuspecting teenagers.

It's even worse in real life than it is in D.A.R.E. classes. You realize, as Pseudoctor explains why she's there, that morphine was just the gateway drug. She has something else that she wants you to take, something that might let you live. The risks are high, though; Knee Socks gives you pictures of melted people and beetle men and tentacle women and then stares at you all creepy-like.

The Doctor smiles, offers you a vial.

 


	2. 1.2 Mucho Concrete

**August 21, 1986**

After you accept, you're taken to an empty warehouse in a part of Los Angeles your mother would never have let you visit. The Doctor unstoppers her vial and hands it over.

You look at the blood-red concoction, but it's not the liquid you see so much as the potential. Not the potential for death or "deviation" because you're already dead, you're already a monster, but the potential for life and all that comes with it, like heroin—er, heroism—and hamburgers.

Well, bottoms up.

Actually, ew, this tastes gross. You finish off half the concoction and start to lower it, but Knee Socks steps forward and tips the last of it down your throat.

Geez, these drug runners are _pushy_.

Nothing happens.

Then it hurts.

It hurts less than the chemotherapy did, but it still hurts.

Then you see vast, kaleidoscoping beings worming about in space.

Woah, this drug is pretty trippy. You wonder if you're going to become addicted.

The vision clears rapidly and you focus on the results. You can see. You can fly. Your body is an unbreakable stronghold instead of literal tissue paper; your mind is an Italian sportscar instead of a literal tricycle.

Oh _yeah_ , you _are_ addicted. To **life**.

You're so grateful and exuberant you turn to the nearest person—Knee Socks—and try to throw your arms around her.

She flings herself out of the way, turns the momentum into a roll, and uses that momentum to pop up again on the other side of the Doctor.

("Never give hug to me or my bodyguard ever again.")

As you crush concrete with your hands to cope with this rejection, Knee Socks adds "creepy whispering" to her list of demonstrated talents, following "creepy staring" and "super rude hug-avoidance."

After she's done whispering and you're done crushing concrete, the Doctor makes you a second offer—join her. To save others, to save everyone.


	3. 1.3 Mucho Portal

**August 21, 1986**

The choice is easy. This woman has given you life and everything in life; the least you can do is join her cause for a couple of years. She's a hero, a pioneer, a goddamn inspiration, and you want to help her help more people like you. Knee Socks, despite her bizarre behavior, has challenged you in a way you've never been challenged before. Yes, this will be your future.

That doesn't mean you're going to make it easy on 'em. If they want you, they'll have to negotiate.

"All right," you declare and pause for drama. "On one condition."

The Doctor raises an eyebrow. "Yes?"

You fling your arm out in the direction of the prize you wish to claim. "I get to hug Knee Socks."

The Doctor looks confused; Knee Socks walks up to you.

Your eyes meet.

You stare at each other for a moment—she stares creepily, you stare curiously. What will happen? Will she say something? Will you finally embrace?

Suddenly she produces a taco.

You reach for it, and—

"Well," the Doctor says, from the hamburger-eating boy side of the portal. "I think we had better be going."

Only slightly traumatized, you follow through.

The boy you saw is young—young enough he should be in elementary school and not in a white room with nothing but a table and a Happy Meal. Knee Socks seems to be less reserved with him than she was with you; she runs her fingers through the boy's hair with one hand and steals the pickles off his hamburger with the other. Is that what kids who don't spend their time dying of cancer do these days? Weird.

"This is Doormaker," the Doctor said. "He makes doors."

"Hi, Doormaker," you say. "I'm Rebecca!"

He doesn't respond, so you lightly brush his shoulder—very, very, very lightly—just to show him you're there.

The boy practically jumps out of his skin. He upsets the tray he's eating off of, and fries fall over the place. Knee Socks snaps the tray up and uses it to catch all the fries before they hit the ground.

Well, all except for ones that end up in your hospital gown.

"Uh, so, what do we do first?" you say, trying to redirect the conversation from your momentary clumsiness.

"I can't help but notice you only have one HOSPITAL GOWN," the Doctor says, shouting the last two words for some reason. "Perhaps you would like to get some clothes better suited for heroic work?"

"Can we go to a mall, maybe?" you ask. Somewhere with fast food would be ideal, and hamburgers can't be shattered the way taco shells can. You'll just have to be vigilant to ensure your fellow kids do not yoink your pickles.

"That sounds like an excellent plan," the Doctor says. "Contessa, accompany Miss Costa-Brown."

Knee Socks sneezes, and apparently that's enough of a response, because the Doctor sees fit to leave you with nothing more than a "door, garden."

That's a little confusing because the portal the Doctor steps through definitely does not lead to the outside, but—whatever. There's something more important here, and that's that the girl has a name and now you know it.

. . . doesn't mean you’re going to stop calling her Knee Socks, of course.


	4. 1.3b Mucho Dust

  
  
  
  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

Doormaker makes a door, which is nice of him considering you ruined his meal earlier.

Knee Socks collects the banded stack of cash that had been sitting on the table and follows you through. You see that, on closer observation, it appears to consist entirely of one dollar bills. You doubt it will be enough for clothes, but before you can ask, she points to a bathroom.

You self-consciously realize what you must look like—you can in fact recall pulverizing the tacos with absolute clarity—and immediately go in. You must cleanse yourself of taco gore. When you emerge, generally clean and free of cold french fries, Knee Socks is outside with a McDonald's bag in her right hand and two sodas in her left. Yes, two: they're precariously stacked, one on top of the other. She leads you to a sitting area where the two of you can eat.

"Thank you," you say.

She doesn't reply, but it doesn't matter; you are interested, not in talking, but in eating. You rapidly demolish two cheeseburgers. It doesn't escape your notice that they lack pickles, but that is odd—they appeared to be perfectly wrapped. Did she just ask them to hold the pickles, or—oh, God, these french fries. Hot, salty, greasy: the experience is everything you imagined death would steal from you.

Ha! Screw you, death. You're alive and you're going to _stay_ that way.

You finish your feast in a matter of minutes. Contessa works her way through her chicken nuggets a little more slowly, so you take the time to brainstorm a coherent list of all the sensible clothes you wish to try on. A golden bikini to honor your second-favorite heroine from that movie that came out a couple years ago, or even the same outfit that your third-favorite heroine, Ebony Dark'ness Dementia Raven Way, wore in that greatest work of fantasy literature, _My Immortal_. A Fugly Bob's uniform, to blend in with the general populace. A very red outfit, perhaps, to show off your excellent and _radical_ taste in color. Or maybe pure, unadulterated black—simultaneously tasteful _and_ radical. No heels, though, they're death traps—

Wait, you can FLY. Heels will be perfectly acceptable! Nobody trips when they're flying!

 

Knee Socks sneezes again. You wonder, with no small degree of trepidation, whether she has cancer that looks deceptively like a cold.

"Are you okay?" you ask.

No response. She might be mute—no, you recall (with perfect accuracy) that you heard her whispering to the Doctor. Maybe she's just embarrassed about sneezing twice in ten minutes. When she finishes her meal and stands up, she collects your trash as well as her own.

"Thanks," you say, but she is still silent, and remains silent as you select all the RADICAL CLOTHES (you feel like those words deserve to be shouted) you would like to sample, and she remains silent throughout your excellent and fulfilling wardrobe montage . . . even when you display your unsurpassed hip hop skills.

Rejecting hugs, refusing to talk to you even when she should be playing the supportive best friend role as you try on clothing—that's beyond rude, it's outright hurtful. What is her damage? [That hip-hop](https://soundcloud.com/vitamin_p) was top-notch, if you do say it yourself (and, by God, you do).

Your newly healed and enhanced mind considers this question for about three seconds before—

Eureka! She must be shy!

Poor Contessa! You, Rebecca Costa-Brown, have never been shy, and the burden falls to you to help her come out of her shell. You decide to bring the might of your Ferrari brain to bear on this problem.

Wait, no, you're at the register now and you're facing a much bigger problem. You recall—with a nearly overwhelming clarity—the exact amount of money Contessa had and the exact price of the entire menu of the McDonald's, and your mind just does the math. She has a nickel left, so now you definitely have to pay using your powers.

"Madam," you say to the irritated cashier. "It is true that I am penniless. However, I have superpowers, and I . . . "


	6. Chapter 6

"Madam," you say to the irritated cashier. "It is true that I am penniless and unable to pay for these truly radical clothes I have selected."

She rolls her eyes.

"However," you continue, and you pause for effect, an effect ruined by Contessa sneezing yet again.

You sigh and roll your eyes.

"However," you say, repeating both the beginning of your sentence and the pause for effect, "I have superpowers—"

You pause again and turn your head to glare at Knee Socks, just triple dog daring her to sneeze. Her brow is slightly furrowed, probably in confusion but you don't know because she isn't talking to you.

At least she doesn't sneeze this time.

A dozen or so ways to end your sentence flash through your mind—diverse though they are in scope and tack, they are all practical and extremely sensible. Your creativity is the result of your now truly radical brain, you suppose, as is your ability to select the optimal course of action.

You whip your head back to the cashier, allowing all one hundred fifty thousand HAIR to snap out like a cape or—something. "And I am here to solve all your problems."

The fashionably dressed blonde woman narrows her eyes. "Including the problem I have of two crazy kids in my store who want me to give them free clothes?" she asks, which is a little too on the nose.

Contessa looks outraged and opens her mouth—perhaps the implication that she wants a clothing handout is so offensive she will speak!

No, that was . . . definitely a sneeze.

(Perhaps she isn't speaking to you and had to whisper to the Doctor because she has a cold? As she's blowing her nose in her handkerchief, you try to sneak in a hug of comfort and sympathy but she sidesteps you. _Seriously?!_ )

"I'm calling security," the cashier says.

You sense that the cashier isn't receptive to you. You review your memory of her body language—she was already upset when you came in, and your exuberance and inability to pay (despite your being fly as heck)—are not helping her right now. Maybe you'll have to look into that in the future, learning about and training how to better read people.

"Hey," you say, gently. "I'm sorry for adding to what I have no doubt was a rough day."

Suspicion crosses her face, but it's tempered with a measure of softening.

"A few hours ago I was ready to die. I was so sick for so long, and I finally just gave up. But then I—" You realize you can't explain what the Doctor and Knee Socks did for you, so you skip over that part; besides, she might not be impressed to learn your conversion to life and heroism started with morphine. "I was _cured_. And now I feel great and I have powers. I want to live life the best I can, and I want to save and help as many people as I can, to make sure that they get to live and they get the best life. I'll start with you—if you can help me with the clothes."

"Dying wouldn't be that bad," she says, cynically and bitterly, but you're not sure if she really means it. "Just think of all the problems in the world. One person can't fix everything."

You give her your best soulful look of concern. "What's troubling you?"

Her response is—very long. You were thinking maybe she was down about working in a retail environment, or her kid playing hooky, or maybe a toothache or something. Instead, she tells you everything that's troubling her: the state of the world at large, the large amount of puppies she isn't able to save from shelters, the Aswan High Dam, her broken vacuum cleaner, the commercialization of Christmas, the predilection for youth these days to take drugs (you shift guiltily), the less vibrant coloration of most female birds vis a vis their male counterparts, inflation, how hard it is to master a tonal language, the fact her boyfriend was probably cheating on her, and the decline of the home economics class in the American school system are but a handful of the things she considers to be her problems.

 

You stare at her open-mouthed for a couple of seconds—which is rude, but she's crying so she can't see your stunned reaction. You're relying on satisfying a crazy person for your clothes.

. . . Whatever, crazy people need saving, too.

"I will solve your problems," you say, and you slam your fist on the counter for emphasis.

It shatters.

Oops.

The cashier looks shocked for a few hundredths of a second, and you're worried she's going to get mad at you.

"See," you say. "I really do have superpowers."

She laughs through her tears.

This hero thing... is _bitchin'_.

So much for precious moments.

You sigh. "Starting with your boyfriend. We'll find out what he's really up to."


	7. 1.6 Mucho Nitrate

You know exactly how you're going to find out what her boyfriend's up to. You're so smart now.

And your superpowered brain informs you that, in order to properly conduct this investigation, you will need more data.

"May I have more information on your boyfriend's identity?" you ask.

The cashier responds to your request readily—too readily to reflect well on her mental health, you fear. She immediately reaches under the desk, gets out a veritable mountain of overstuffed manila file folders, and deposits them in your arms.

It's only your enhanced strength that saves you from collapsing. You glance through the documents, noting with mild irritation that Contessa isn't there to help you (not that you need it); she's off collecting her natty hat.

Wait, she's already collected it, and she's still walking away. You rush after her—ah, heels, right—you fly after her. "Where are you going?" you ask, floating alongside her while also flawlessly balancing a crazy person's file pile.

She doesn't speak, but you notice she has a set of car keys in the hand that isn't pressing a handkerchief to her face. "You're, uh, going to drive like that?" you ask. "Can you drive? Maybe I could fly us instead?"

She shakes her head, and you realize the immense wisdom in the gesture; you can’t fly. All stakeouts must happen in cars; you watched enough buddy cop movies while you were in the hospital to know that this is a rule. And, you think, as you get into the passenger seat of the car you and your partner are stealing, you are not about to start off your hero career by breaking the rules.

As Contessa drives—surprisingly well, considering she's thirteen and can't see where she's going and is mostly occupied with her handkerchief—you review the files and tell Knee Socks about what you find. It's okay that Contessa is silent; the rules say that by the time this stakeout ends, you will be best friends. Things are going pretty well, today; you stopped dying of cancer, joined a wickedly cool conspiracy to save the world, ate cheeseburgers, obtained some truly excellent clothes, became a superhero, located your first citizen in need, and now you're forging a lifelong bond with your soon to be best friend!

. . . Who abruptly issues another man-flattening sneeze, crashing you into a brick wall.

The passenger side of the car is utterly crushed, but that's mostly because your body is much stronger than mere steel. You see the files are scattered by the four winds; thank goodness you already read them all, and therefore have them memorized.

Knee Socks carefully and methodically extricates herself from the wreckage.

"Where are they?" she demands. She would have a nice voice, you think, if it weren't distorted by an obviously stuffed nose.

"Where are what?"

"Your ca—schnff," she says.

"My what?" you ask, befuddled.

"Your pair of _damnable felines_. I’m allergic to them. They are _disruptive_."

Right! You have two adorable cats; that is how you have always lived your life, and it's not going to change just because you almost died.

"I know they're here," she hisses, rubbing her reddened nose fiercely. "But I don't understand—"

You hear the wail of police sirens approaching.

"We need to go to a pharmacy," Contessa says suddenly, leading you to an undamaged car. "It will look less suspicious if you drive."

"I can't drive," you say. Do you have to remind her that, yes, while the average fifteen-year-old American does know how to drive, you've been dying of cancer instead?

She pauses to blow her nose and sneeze three more times. "I'll direct you."

You comply, and you feel a little guilty that your adorable cats are causing your partner in cape such distress. Another concern follows closely on the heels of the first; what about your budget?

"Will a nickel be enough to pay for the medication?" you ask. You don't know the street value of an antihistamine these days.

"I'll get it for free," she gasps. "Turn—" she sneezes. "Right here. Brake slowly."

You don't feel particularly enthused about being in a store that sells medication, so you wait outside in the car and look at the strip mall you've parked in. There's a Chinese restaurant, a store that sells only the biggest of shoulder pads for the working lady's powersuits, a farming supply company, and a boombox supply store.

—Wait a minute!

There's a man going into the farming supply store, and he looks an awful lot like the two-timing, good-for-nothing boyfriend of the pure, innocent cashier you're helping!

You put your sunglasses on and follow him inside—taking care to float a little so your heels don't make a clacking sound that will give yourself away.

It looks like he's been there before, you think. It appears he's paying for an order he already placed; the manager accepts a check and directs him to a pile of bags he immediately starts to put in his pickup truck.

"He's planning on crafting an explosive," Contessa says. Somehow she's beside you—snuck up on you without you noticing?—and she seems perfectly composed and not in the throes of an allergic reaction.

"How do you know?" you whisper.

"Nobody in the suburbs buys that much fertilizer without intending to blow something up."

Your partner's word is good enough for you, and you fly forward, hovering over the bed of his truck.

"Halt, evildoer!" you proclaim. "Nobody will blow a thing up on my watch!"

“What?” he exclaims. “What is this? Who are you? Are you trying to trick me? How are you floating? And—I would never blow anything up! Ever!”

“Nobody in the suburbs buys that much fertilizer without intending to blow something up,” you say ominously.

"You don't understand," he says. "I'm not a bad guy."

"You're building a homemade bomb," you retort. "That is about as evil as you can get. I don't care what foul ideology motivates your terrorism, but—"

"It's not political," he interrupts. Rude. Well, maybe that's for the best—it wouldn't do to develop a habit of monologuing so early on.

You settle for narrowing your eyes. "Explain.”

"My girlfriend—she teaches geography part-time, and she really hates the Aswan High Dam.”

He goes on and on about the negative ecological effects of the dam, how it ended the millennia-old pattern of seasonal Nile floods, how the reservoir destroyed many sites of historical and archeological significance, the fact the Soviets built it and it is therefore Communist, et cetera—it's word for word what the cashier told you.

"So,” he concludes, “I’m getting rid of it. It’ll be my way of asking her to marry me."

This is _so_ not where you thought this conversation was going.

 

 

 


	8. 1.7 Mucho Diplomacy

Your icy rage of righteousness thaws a little as the warmth of empathy is kindled. The man is in love, and he isn't cheating on the cashier at all! He's simply putting together an elaborate proposal, and who among us would not appreciate an explosion-based expression of desire? Talk about commitment!

You are also overcome by patriotic fervor. Your country was founded by men and women who threw other people’s property into the ocean because it cost too much, and who decided everyone should have that freedom. Just as the Nile should have the freedom to destroy other people’s property by flooding every year!

“Ah, heck,” you say. A bald eagle flies overhead, shitting on the fertilizer bags in the pickup truck as it passes. America’s own contribution to the cause, and an omen if you ever saw one. “You gotta do what you gotta do. I'll help you.”

His eyes shine with hope and gratitude (or just tears of relief). “Thank you,” he says. “I really only need help with one thing.”

“Yes?” you ask, the warmth of kinship for your countryman flowing through your veins.

“Egypt is . . . Kind of far away.”

A problem to which you have a solution! “I can fly you and the fertilizer there,” you say. You turn to ask Contessa if she would like to join you, but she has disappeared again. You shrug, accepting her mysterious movements; you trust your partner to be there for you when it counts.

You balance the fertilizer bags and the lovestruck freedom fighter and take off for Egypt.

Wow, flying is mucho awesome! The wind in your hair! The lack of barriers between you and the sky! The bugs splatting against your face! Oops, that was an airliner and not a bug  (you add saving the passengers of an airliner to your list of accomplishments).

You have to fly slow enough that your new friend doesn’t fall off and low enough that he can still breathe and be comfortably warm, so it’s kind of more of a leisurely cruise over the purple majesty of the Rocky Mountains and the amber grain waves of the Great Plains. Eventually you hit a river—not the Nile, but the Mississippi—and salute it as you pass by. Mark Twain was once a pilot on that river, and he was extremely American.

The fields of the Ohio River Valley give rise to the low, tree-covered hills of the Appalachian mountains and at length you pass the great monuments of the District of Columbia and find yourself over the Atlantic. (You didn’t actually know all this before—again, you spent more time being eaten by leukemia than you did in social studies class—but it turns out the cashier’s passion for geography has rubbed off on her soon-to-be fiance.)

The Atlantic goes on for what feels like ages, but you finally spot land, the same land that the soldiers of the storied First Infantry Division landed on in America’s first strike against the Nazi menace. You pass Tunisia, significant for being the place where they filmed Star wars, a very American movie, and Tripoli, significant for being referenced in the Marine Corps Hymn, a very American song, and mark your arrival to Egypt by flying over the ancient city of Alexandria—nice name, that.

You follow the Nile to the Aswan High Dam—you recognize it immediately, despite never having seen it, because it it oozes with Communism, oppression, and evil. You land on the top of the dam.

“You know,” the man says, slowly, as he surveys the bags of fertilizer strewn about his feet. “I never thought I’d get this far. You really are a hero.”

You beam at the compliment, but wonder why he’s dawdling. There could be guards! The guards might see you and ask you for your papers—that’s what Communists do, isn’t it? “Make your dreams reality,” you say.

He nods, slowly, pensively. “There’s one minor issue,” he says. “I don’t actually know how to make a bomb. I just heard that fertilizer could be used as a basis for a bomb.”

“ _What?_ ” you ask.

He shrugs helplessly. “The Anarchist’s Cookbook exists, yes, but it’s very Communist. I would never read it.”

You stare at him in utter disbelief. What kind of guy is this? He’s so incompetent you retitle him as a terrorist instead of a freedom fighter. What is his major malfunction?!

Contessa arrives exactly when you thought she would—at the critical moment. She and the cashier come through a portal.

“What is this?!” the cashier demands. “The Aswan High Dam in _real life_?!” She starts punching the nearest part of the concrete structure while incoherently shrieking something about pharaohs and the czar.

You realize, with a twinge of shame, that these people are completely off their rocker. What the heck possessed you to think that helping him was a good idea?! Who, or what, has gotten ahold of your ability to think things through and make good choices?! Why didn’t you just fix her damn vacuum and call it a day?

The incompetent bombmaker kneels down on a bag of fertilizer. “My beloved Xiaofeng, will you destroy this dam and use its wreckage as the foundation for the rest of our lives?”

She's so focused on punching the dam she punches him a couple of times by accident. Then she stops, processes what he's saying, and begins to shriek incoherently again—in joy and affirmation this time.

Just as you feared, the noise attracts guards and they approach you. “Papers, please,” the guards say to the couple making out. They disregard you and Contessa, maybe because you're children or maybe because you aren't the ones covered in fertilizer.

“Never!” the American couple shouts in crazed unison.

“This is obviously a terrorist attack started by the CIA,” says one of the guards says wearily. “Only they could be so incompetent. I'll go call the Kremlin.”

“Yeah, you do that!” The cashier throws her shoe at him.

“This is ridiculous,” you say. “No way a random security guard has that level of access.”

“Of course a private soldier on an Egyptian dam has a direct line of access to the Kremlin,” says Contessa. “Practically everybody does. Soviets are notoriously controlling and micromanagerial when it comes to their subordinates, and they demand frequent updates.”

Laid out like that, this entire scenario makes perfect sense, you think.

Your limited understanding and acceptance of the facts of this situation quickly deteriorates, however, as World War Three begins to break out. Helicopters fly in, bringing dignitaries, leaders, and Ronald Reagan. Missile silos spring out of the ground, fully formed. At least five armies show up, all with mobile nuclear tipped missile launching platforms. This whole thing is a circus, and still nobody has bothered to blow up the dam.

Wow, even Gorbachev is screaming and that's a little disappointing, really. You thought he would be calmer about all this? Calmer than “Star Wars” Reagan, at least, and certainly calmer than the average leader of the oppressed world. Like, he never even starved Ukraine or threw a shoe at the United Nations or anything.

Contessa is unperturbed. “It occurs to me that someone who stepped in right now to defuse the situation would be internationally hailed as a hero,” she remarks. She then gives you a pointed look, which is sufficient to make you realize—she thinks YOU should be that hero! Indeed, it’s almost as if this entire situation is designed to make for an excellent debut!

She smiles a little as you comprehend her meaning.

Then the smile vanishes, and her face cycles rapidly through confusion, hatred, and fear before going blank again.

You turn around and look at the sky to see what has caught her attention. Holy buttholes, what is that? It’s... wow, it’s Scion! And he’s destroying all the nuclear weapons and disarming all the soldiers that are surrounding the dam with a golden light!

The mood has changed in light of the intervention of the world’s first superhero—even Gorbachev is calming down, which, finally—and you’re relieved for a few moments before you realize something even worse than nuclear war has happened.

Somebody ended the Cold War, and it _wasn't you_! Your kill just _got stolen_!

Before you can put your thoughts about this outrageous, awe-inspiring, and more than a little terrifying interruption (not to mention the golden man attached to it) into words, Contessa yanks you, still open-mouthed and babbling incoherently, through a portal.

“It’s a lie,” Contessa says. “Everything about him is a lie. I bet he doesn’t care about the US or the USSR.”

Confusion overcomes your shock, but you can’t ask for clarification—the Doctor is there and seems to want a word.

“Contessa,” the angry woman says angrily as she looms over your partner in anger, “Do you have the first idea of how utterly irresponsible it is to keep spending all of our money on Happy Meals?!”


	9. 2.1 Mucho Debt

Well, this is incredibly awkward and dispiriting. The organization you work for is not as financially organized as they should be! But this is, perhaps, typical mad scientist life management skills. Probably the Doctor is too busy making superheroes to attend to finances, and Doormaker doesn’t seem to do much aside from make doors, which would leave everything else in Contessa’s lap--not a great way of conducting business, since she presumably has to go do heroic things as well as handle the administrivia.

The Doctor is not very sympathetic, though. “It’s bad enough the petty cash piggy is usually useless, but the serious money seal should always be full, and I don’t mean full of whatever shiny doodads that catch Doormaker’s fancy,” the Doctor interjects. “How can we operate if we don’t even keep enough assets to fund a revolution in a mid-sized Latin American country on hand?”

Contessa hangs her head. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll make sure I do better.”

Your teammate, partner, buddy, BFF, and person-soon-to-be-hugged-by-you chastised by an unreasonable authority figure, shamed into admitting failure? The sight is too painful for you to bear, and you must speak up.

“Look,” you say. “Maybe you should hire an accountant?”

“An excellent idea, Miss Costa-Brown,” says the Doctor. “Do you know of one who accepts plastic snakes and dead flies as payment?”

Contessa winces at the sarcasm. “It . . . It’s actually possible,” she says. “I know how to find someone we don’t have to pay. He’ll help us make money on the stock market.”

“Go and get him immediately,” the Doctor says, and stalks out.

“How do you run things around here without money?” you ask.

“I’ve been asking people to just give me things, for the most part,” Contessa says with a shrug. “They always agree.”

“Oh,” you say, recalling her remark about how she was going to pay for the allergy medicine. Do you have a—wait, is that your superpower?”

“Something like that,” she says. “There’s a boy out there whose superpower is to understand and manipulate complex mathematics. We can collect him.”

That does sound like a very imposing and useful superpower; before the cancer stole you from school, math was easily the hardest and most intimidating subject you dealt with. “Yeah, he sounds great. Why haven’t you gotten him before?” you ask.

“Because he’s eleven,” she says. “And a serial killer.”

“He what?”

“He doesn’t want to be,” she adds hastily. “He’s in a bad situation. Which is why he’ll work for free--we’ll give him something interesting to do and we won’t make him kill people anymore.”

That is indeed heroic, rescuing boys from being made to kill. Unfair child labor practices have always been particularly outrageous to you, seeing as your parents made you clean out the litterbox for less than a dollar a week (pre-cancer, of course; post-cancer, cat poop went the way of math textbooks). “I’m in,” you say.

“Ever heard of the Slaughterhouse Nine?” Contessa asks.


	10. 2.1a Mucho Collateral Damage

**Meanwhile . . .**

Your name is Dale Ryker, and you have had one _hell_ of a day. It all started to go wrong when you decided to buy new socks. _That_ is the decision you will rue for the rest of your life. You should have just learned to darn (pity your high school had no home economics classes).

There were omens, you think. All your non-ugly clothes were dirty, so you had to wear terrible red pants. You considered getting a haircut but then thought a mullet would be acceptable for just one more day. You then drove your beautiful red car, the only thing about your life that had value, to Macy’s. However, Macy’s was out of socks, and you were forced to go to a much more expensive boutique, one that specialized in radical clothes.

Things weren’t completely terrible there. You paid for your socks--triple what would have been charged at Macy’s, but it’s not like you had options--and the cashier was cute, if a little distracted.  You then walked away, foolishly unaware, arrogantly complacent.

The worst part of all this? You _almost_ made it out. _Almost_ exited the building. You were _at most_ two feet away from the doors when a hat came flying out of nowhere and struck you in the neck.

You’re not so insecure in your manhood you can’t admit it: you collapsed. Immediately.

After a few moments of lying on the floor, dazed and wondering if your morning Wheaties had been laced with acid, you struggled to your feet and examined the hat. You ascertained you were _not_ hallucinating and you decided to just forget about it and move on with your day. It was certainly an odd and uncomfortable experience, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t get over.

Yeah, you got maybe half a foot before a cop and a kid came up to you. Apparently the flying hat belonged to her, and--despite the fact you were an innocent victim--she thinks you stole it. The cop took one look at her quivering lip and accusing finger and arrested you on the spot.

You don’t even understand why she was even upset about the hat; she was already wearing one, and insisting on the second was just greedy.

You also don’t understand why a simple misunderstanding about flying hat ownership led to you getting not only arrested, but charged. You even have a trial date and had to post bail, because being hit by a twelve dollar hat leads to felony larceny charges in this state. The justice system was remarkably thorough, here, puzzlingly swift in retribution for a non-existent crime.

. . . And yet, the police don’t seem to care that your car was stolen while you were in jail.

Stolen and crashed.

You stand before your vehicle, which is crumpled against a brick wall, grappling with questions of fairness, justice, and physics.

The driver’s side is mildly dented. That is in itself a veritable tragedy, but it’s more of a light-hearted comedic number when compared to the explosion of twisted metal that was once the passenger’s side. It almost looks like the impact came from inside the vehicle, which--no, that makes no sense, whatsoever.

Your life is ruined. Your socks have holes in them, you are soon to be a felon for no reasonable reason, and your once gorgeous car is dead as the nails on Marley’s coffin. You have no idea why this has happened to you. You’ve been a good person so far. You’ve paid your taxes, you’ve sponsored starving children in Africa, you’ve even refrained from using your sweet ride to run over hobos.  You don’t understand why the world has singled you out for such misfortune.

Your existential crisis takes on  physical dimension; it turns into a headache. Soon it will be a migraine, and you could do with some aspirin. You turn away from the ruined husk of everything you once loved and walk a block or two to a pharmacy.

You push the door open.

Your jaw drops.

All is chaos. Displays have been defaced, packaging has been shredded, lights have been cracked, bottles have been opened and emptied, pills have been crushed. Nothing in this store is intact; you are doomed, not only to life as a felon without an automobile, but to an afternoon with a headache.

You would flee this wretched spectacle, but your transportation is utterly, permanently inoperable and your headache is really bad.

You pick your way through the detritus of what was no doubt once a functional store and find a woman hiding behind three overturned shelves.

“Ma’am,” you say, “I’m not one to question anything that’s presented to me, but I have to ask--what in the name of God and his archangels happened here? Also, do you have any aspirin?”

You’ve touched on an unpleasant memory; no sooner are the words out of your mouth than the poor pharmacist bursts into tears.

“I was viciously robbed by an eighth grader,” she wails.

“What?” you ask.

“This kid,” she says, practically choking on her sobs. “Everything was going well up until this cute little kid with these dorky knee high socks came in. Took one look around and started destroying everything. I tried to stop her, but she choked me and said she would do to every bone in my body what she’d done to my store if I didn’t hand over all my benadryl.”

“Er,” you say. Whatever you were expecting, it wasn’t that.

“I would have just given it to her if I thought she was sick!” The pharmacist wrings her hands. “Now everything is ruined and nobody will believe me.”

Well, it is an absurd story. You can’t blame people for not believing her. _You_ don’t believe her.

. . . Just like nobody at the police station believes you.

“Say,” you say, “Was the kid who knocked this joint over wearing two hats?”

“Yes,” she says. “How did you know?”

“A hat hit my neck and then my life fell apart,” you say. “I think it’s her fault.”

“How?” she whispers. “She looked so cute. What is wrong with her?”

You agree. Back in your day, youth smoked marijuana instead of terrorizing upstanding suburbanites and ruining their lives.

You hear someone cough slightly, _ahem_ , and you turn to see the source of the noise.

A black woman in a lab coat stands there, her hands clasped behind her back.

“Hello,” says the woman. “I sense you’re desperate.”

“How did you get in here?” asks the pharmacist. “Today’s been bad enough without being bothered by burglarious pharmaceutical company reps.”

“I’m not trying to get you to buy something,” the woman says, smiling. “I’m here to give you something. Both of you, since I know you’ve both had a _very_ rough time today.”

“What do you mean?” you ask.

She withdraws her hands from behind her back. Each is holding a glass vial filled with blood-red liquid. “I have something to take the edge off.”


	11. 2.2 Mucho Ham Costume

**2.2: Mucho Ham Costume**

“What,” Contessa says, “is that?”

“It’s a ham costume,” you say. “Like Scout’s?”

She stares at you.

“Didn’t you read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ when you were growing up?” you ask.

“No,” she says. “I didn’t read _To Kill a Mockingbird_ when I was growing up.”

“Then why did you want me to get a ham costume?”

“I didn’t.” She looks at you like you’re a crazy person.

You clear your throat. “I haven’t told you this, but I think the potion gave me a really good memory—”

“It did,” she agrees.

You wonder how she knew that, but it’s a question you can save for later. “And I know for an absolute fact you wanted me to get a ham costume. It’s a key component of your plan. I _remember_.”

“What?” she cries. “Why would a ham costume ever be a key component of any plan?”

You are now very seriously concerned about your best friend and partner in hero. “Contessa,” you say, as gently as you can, “It was on the whiteboard. Your plan calls for me to trap our accountant in a ham costume.”

“I—buh—what—how—That was very clearly a _net_ ,” she exclaims.

“Oh,” you say. This is awkward, so awkward that even the ferrari in your skull can’t think of an easy way out. How embarrassing for her.

“My drawing was perfect,” she says, directly contradicting the thoughts you were having in private. “Nearly everything I do is perfect.”

You start to sweat. Far from being perfect, her drawing was bad, really bad, and you can’t even say “tomato, tomato” or “de gustibus” to it; her drawing was so objectively bad that you went and got a ham costume instead of a net, and that in turn has thrown your entire mission into jeopardy.

“I . . . like ham costumes?” you offer. “And I thought that maybe he would too?”

“Never mind,” Contessa says. “I can work with a ham costume just as well as I can with a net.”

“Er,” you say, but Contessa is already talking to Doormaker, and you’re left with little choice but to haul the ham costume through the portal after her.

You find yourself in an evergreen forest, and it looks like it’s just before dusk. As you float behind Contessa (a lot easier than having to walk and negotiate the maneuvering of the ham costume at the same time), you talk about what you know of the mission.

“I mean, I think I might be a little young for Slaughterhouse Five,” you say. “The parts about, er, sex were kind of weird—”

You pause, just in case Contessa wants to weigh in on that. You missed out on what, exactly, best friends do when talking (thanks, cancer!), but you’re pretty sure that giggling about anything related to boys is one of them.

She forges ahead instead of replying, apparently ignoring you. You know she isn’t ignoring you, of course, because you’re best friends and ignoring your best friend is just unconscionable.

“Anyway, I really liked it. The idea about Billy being unstuck in time was really interesting.”

Contessa comes to a stop, and you almost fly into her.

“Can you imagine that?” you ask. “Becoming unstuck from time?"

“I can imagine being stuck _in_ time," she said.

“In time for what?"

“ _Stuck in time_ ," she says again, and she points at the hunting lodge in a clearing front of you. "There's a boy here who creates very short time loops that can’t be turned off. So if he traps someone and he stabs them, they will be stabbed every three seconds for more than five and a half billion years.”

“What the heck!" you exclaim. “That’s—that’s terrible! That’s . . .” You search for a word, any word, that captures your feelings. Sometimes English is so limited.  “Terrible.”

Indeed, you cannot think of anything that could possibly be worse.

There's an awkward pause during which Contessa doesn't quite meet your eye. “Yes,” she finally says. “It is.”

If only you had training in kinesics and vocalics! Maybe then you'd be able to understand the nonverbal aspects of this interaction.

. . . Maybe she wants a hug?

“I do _not_ want a hug!” she says, exasperated.

You're a little offended. You don't think you've been so pushy about giving her a hug that you’re predictable. “Maybe I do,” you suggest, tentatively.

“Look,” she says firmly. “These people are very dangerous. They aren’t out of a book. You have to take them seriously.”

This is advice you don’t actually need. All gaiety and frivolity exited your life the moment you heard the word “leukemia,” and you’ve been unable to take anything at all less than one hundred and ten percent seriously since then.

“Do _not_ let him see you,” she said.

You nod, solemnly.

“The good news is that he causes trouble,” she says. “So they keep him locked up in the basement. So long as we’re fast, they won’t have time to get him out and attack us with him.”

“Who else is in there?” you ask.

“Screamer and Breed are going shopping. Four of them are on the main floor, one on the kitchen and two in the living room. Our accountant is in one of the bedrooms playing checkers with another boy, Jacob. Jacob can stab things from far away. He can’t hurt you, but he can hurt me and our accountant.”

“Why would he hurt the accountant? Aren’t they friends?”

“They’d rather kill each other than let someone escape,” she says.

You take a moment to digest that.

“So,” she says. “Do you want to be the one who operates the ham, or do you want to deal with the others?”

“I think I’m supposed to operate the ham,” you say. “That’s how it was when you briefed us.”

“I also briefed that you were supposed to have a net,” she says.

So awkward. You’d be willing to overlook her mistake, but she keeps bringing it up.

“We don’t have to stick to the briefing,” she says. “The Doctor wants me to get results, and both ways will get the same result. It’s up to you how we proceed.”

She pauses.

“And no, we cannot proceed with a hug.”


	12. 2.2a Mucho Gelato

Your name is Contessa, and you don't have a lot of time.  
  
Whoa, it doesn't mean that you're _dying_. What would even make anyone assume that?  
  
You check with your power.  
  
Several assassination attempts on you are going to happen in the next twenty-four hours, naturally. But unless that golden monster appears out of nowhere again, you're not going to die anytime soon.  
  
No, you mean you literally don't have a lot of time. What you have is a to-do list as long as eight Rebeccas and precious few years to work through it.

  


  
The two of you are about to embark on a very important extraction mission. Or rather, you _were_ , but Rebecca wants a breather to explore and take her newfound powers for a spin.  
  
If she were anyone else, you would refuse.  
  
However... the powers the vial gave her are useful. Very much so. You foresee her becoming a key political player on the world stage, and it's paramount that you nudge her in certain directions while she's still young and malleable. You've already taken measures to remind her subconsciously of her time in the hospital. Unfortunately, you didn’t keep the Doctor abreast of those measures. Oh well. There will be other opportunities to cement the new member's loyalty.  
  
You give Rebecca an hour. An hour is plenty of time to knock twelve fairly major tasks off the list. (Fifteen if you stop by Kazakhstan.) Plenty of time for Rebecca to grab ice-cream.  


  
Plenty of time to stalk her and find out where she’s keeping those goddamned cats.

  


  
Seriously, what the hell? Where are they? When you asked your power why your nose was suddenly so itchy, it responded only with “CATS”. That much made sense. You noticed mild nasal congestion that one afternoon you visited a shelter in Stockholm, though at the time you were preoccupied microchipping all the schnauzers with tiny surveillance cameras.  
  
You ask, again, where the CATS are. Your power insists they are with REBECCA.  


  
This would appear not to be the case. There are no furry critters trailing at her feet or orbiting her head, no suspicious wriggling lumps under her jacket or in her pants. But your power has never steered you wrong before. There have to be cats _somewhere_ about her person, and you’re going to find them!  
  
You’re going to have to lure them out.  
  
To do that you’re going to need cat toys… and money to pay for them? At the thought of money, you feel a twinge of shame for having disappointed the Doctor.  
  
It’s not entirely your fault—you’ve been busy. Plus, you’ve always been able to get whatever you wanted regardless of what you had in your pockets (mostly packets of artificial sweetener at the moment).  
  
But the Doctor has been proposing more sustainable financial plans to serve the organisation’s long-term goals for a while now, and you should have set those balls in motion earlier.  
  
She’s right.  
  
_The Serious Money Seal should always be full._  
  
You silence the echo of her voice in your head as you go back to base. Dwelling on past mistakes is counterproductive. Anyway, that issue should be taken care of within the next two hours. You’ll have to procure the toys for free.  
  
After informing Doormaker of your agenda, you step through a portal to just outside a chain pet store.  
  
A nearby salesperson perks up at your entrance. “May I help you?”  
  
“Where are the cat toys?” you ask perfunctorily. You’re already striding towards the feline products section. Walking down the aisle, you notice giant deluxe tins of gourmet tuna, chicken, beef liver—wow, cats eat higher quality food than humans—but no toys on the shelves.  
  
“Oh no,” he says, scurrying to keep up. “We stopped stocking toys. Too much controversy. The strike, you understand.”  
  
The strike? You pause as your power supplies you with the relevant information. Apparently anti-child-labour activists recently pressured store owners into boycotting goods produced by the most influential business in area. Turns out they outsource their manufacturing to the local sweatshop and have done so openly for years. Lobbyists have been shouted down until the recently elected governor spoke out against exploitatioblah blah blabity blah you don’t care except that this is terrible timing for you.

  


  
Good for that salesperson, though.  
  
Minor inconvenience. You’ll just pop into the pet store the next continent over and—  
  
You didn’t inform Doormaker. The next door won’t open for some time.  
  
This would be so much easier if there was a way to request doors on the fly.  
  
You don’t fancy twiddling your thumbs until then, and not getting the toys within this timeframe is going to disrupt your schedule. You’re going to have to dismantle the sweatshop and seize all their products. At least you won’t have to leave town.  
  
You hitch a ride to Fairtrade Indusries (your power informs you that that is indeed how the operation’s title is spelt), guiding the driver through traffic. He’s very cooperative regarding your backseat driving, especially once you share your detailed knowledge of his night-time activities.  
  
You arrive at the factory. It doesn’t look much like one: the assembly line isn’t so much a line as a snarled series of knots. True enough, there are kids in there and they are labouring and being exploited. You’re unbelievably glad Rebecca isn’t here, or she’d turn this into some tedious moral crusade.  
  
You weave your way around the clusters of preteens miserably stitching together stuffed mice and dripping globs of glue onto the fabric. Upon closer inspection, they’re sticking these really nasty frayed feathers to the ends. Others still stand on footstools next to giant vats of colourful liquid, their fingers perilously close to toxic dyes.  
  
The scene is depressing as cancer—forget dismantling, you’re just going to retrieve a select few cat toys from storage and leave.  
  
“Hey bitch, did I say you could go? Back to work or I’m docking half your pay.”  
  
...  
  
“That’s four whole cents, if you’re too stupid to count.”  
  
...  
  
“ _Yeah_ , I mean _you_ , runt. Who—”  


  
Moments later, the factory is burning to the ground. The children have been evacuated. Some of them are still capering around the flames, weeping with joy at being free from sixteen-hour workdays, having their family’s debts cleared, or spontaneously getting adopted. Last you saw, the supervisor was at the window trying to build a ladder out of scratching posts.  
  
Pity his products are so flimsy. The ladder will collapse, and—  


  
Yes, those would be his screams now.  
  
You have acquired two sacks of cheap cat toys.  
  
When you get back to base, you randomly pick out a phosphorescent orange plastic ball with misshapen ears on either side. The label _claims_ there’s catnip inside, but your power confirms there is not. A quick check reveals that all the other toys are similarly garish and defective. They are perfect for your purposes.  
  
Rebecca arrives shortly after you finish setting everything up.  
  
“Sorry I’m late!” she says, touching down. “You won’t believe what happened on the way to the—”  
  
A bag of what appears to be a giant stinking hunk of meat is strapped to her back, but you dismiss it as a possible quirk of her superpowered diet. If she can get free food, so much the better. You’re more focused on the two cups of frozen dessert in her hands. Specifically on how they aren’t McDonald’s vanilla soft-serve.  
  
“That isn’t ice-cream,” you say.  
  
“It kind of is?” says Rebecca, puzzled. “It’s gelato. Italian ice-cream. I’ve never had it and somehow I knew you hadn’t either so I thought we could taste it together."  
  
She chatters on, radiating _enthusiasm_ and _youth_ and all the things you've long given up. You think about snuffing that out early. Not so much because you're annoyed at her for getting the wrong ice-cream but because it's a matter of _principle_ , and potentially life or death. One way to do it right now would be to warn her about what could happen if she doesn't always get exactly what you ask for.  
  
"I mean, not together together—that’s why I got two cups. I’m not super concerned about backwash or anything, but it’s weird, I remember in third grade there was this thing where if you shared drinks it was considered indirect kissing and I just thought—”  
  
Instead, you settle down and try the gelato.  
  
It’s pretty good.


	13. 2.3 Mucho Distraction

**Mucho Distraction**

Despite the original plan calling for you to be the one to snag the accountant, you decide to be the distraction. Even with the taped up armholes, a ham costume is more useful as a distraction than a trap for a serial killer. Out of politeness and concern for your friend’s feelings, you will not discuss your decision in depth; this misunderstanding is entirely Contessa’s fault, but ruminating on her inability to draw a net to save her life would be rude.

Besides, _you’re_ in the ham costume already! How can you throw it over a murderous accountant’s head and wear it at the same time? Logistics, people.

Contessa agrees and starts to work her way toward the back of the house.

You fly up to the window. With your strength, you could just smash through it, but you don’t want to attract attention from the lower levels (especially not from the terrible loop boy!). You choose to exercise caution and sneak a peek before utilizing your strength.

The scene before you is surprisingly idyllic, all things Contessa told you considered. There’s a cozy fire roaring in the fireplace. A black-haired boy is sprawled out on his stomach in front of the fire, reading a book, and a blond-haired boy is curled up in an overstuffed armchair behind him, wrapped in a rose-covered blanket and dozing.

They’re eleven, like Contessa said, but they look so much younger.

 _These_ are serial killers? You wonder if Contessa meant “this boy is totally a serial killer and not an innocent nerd” the way she meant “this is totally a net and not a ham costume.”

Man, you really hope she doesn’t have a tendency to get important details wrong. There’s only so much leeway you can give her before you start questioning everything she says, and you don’t want to be in that position with your partner.

But your faith in Contessa receives a boost as you look more closely and realize things are amiss. It’s August; why is there a fire? And _what_ is roasting on it? Certainly not chestnuts.

Gross.

The black-haired boy is twirling a butterfly knife in the hand that isn’t holding open the book, and he’s casually slicing the curtains up—that is actually why you can see through the window to begin with. And the book he’s reading—Oliver Twist? Yikes. This must be Jacob, the one Contessa warned you about.

The blond boy, your serial accountant nerd killer, might be snuggled up in a nice chair, but the blanket he’s snuggling in isn’t covered in floral patterns like you initially thought—those are blood stains. His forehead is creased, his expression tense even in rest.

Well, this is a nightmare.

Better wake ‘em up.

You break the window. Not noisily, you don’t want to attract the notice of anyone else, but you give it the lightest of taps with one of your shoes. It shatters, and you fly through.

. . . You don’t almost get stuck because of your ham costume’s bulk. Nope, that would be undignified, and you are a radical hero, not an undignified klutz who can’t handle a simple outfit.

Jacob leaps to his feet and brandishes his knife at you. He seems ready to attack, but then he sees what you’re wearing and the bloodthirsty look on his face dissolves into utter confusion.

“Sssh!” you hiss before he can speak. “I’m here to rescue you!”

“You?” His voice manages to convey incredulity, amusement, and even _contempt_ —and that kind of gets under your skin. It’s really, really, _really_ not your fault that you had to forsake your radical black clothing. “Rescue _us_?”

“That’s right!” you proclaim, striking a heroic pose.

“From what?”

“What am I _not_ rescuing you from?” you say airily. “Unfair labor practices, to start with. What does your wage look like? Do your parents or other court-appointed legal guardian even know what you get up to?”

Behind him, Contessa stealthily enters the room, stepping over a broken checkers board.

“Don’t talk about my parents!” he shouts. The noise wakes up the accountant, who can’t join the fray because Contessa has him pinned to the chair with his own grody blanket.

You can’t really focus on that, though, because Jake Edgelord here is getting in your face with his slicey knife. The ham costume, despite being of the highest possible quality (the salesman even said so), is shredded in seconds.

“You aren’t bleeding,” he says, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah,” you say, and you allow yourself a broad, heroic (not gloating) smile. “I’m pretty much invincible.”

“Invulnerable, surely.” He absent-mindedly twirls his knife. His tone is thoughtful, his eyes appraising. “Not invincible.”

You feel a chill run down your spine as you consider what he’s saying. Invulnerable: unable to be wounded. Invincible: unable to be defeated. And he’s right: if he figures out what you’re doing, if he looks the wrong way and sees Contessa whispering in the accountant’s ear, or if he decides to call for help, you absolutely _could_ be defeated here.

You put on a brave face.

You cannot be hurt by him, you can hurt him, and he’s _eleven_. You close the distance between the two of you, and you tower over him. “I could just pulp you here and now,” you say, trying to make your voice menacing. Threatening people isn’t heroic, but—well, you _could_. “And I could fly away before your time-loop boy ever gets up here.”

“Probably,” he agrees, craning his neck to look up at your looming visage as behind him Contessa helps your nerd sneak out. “But you haven’t. Why not?”

Ah . . . Good question.

“Because,” you begin. “Uh, because . . . “


	14. 2.4 Mucho Uh-Oh

You pause, thoughtfully and thoroughly considering your many options. This would be a problem if you were a normal person, but you think so fast that Jacob won't notice. How did you even function with your stupid cancer-tricycle brain?

(You didn't. You almost died.)

Now.

You _could_ continue the distraction by expressing your outrage about the ham costume, but . . . You just want to forget about the ham costume, honestly, though by now you realize you are incapable of forgetting anything. The embarrassment of the ham costume mixup and Contessa's cringeworthy denial of responsibility will both remain etched on the marble Ferrari of your brain until the moment you die.

Best not to add to those memories.

You could continue expressing your feelings about child labor, but the shouting and the slicing seem to indicate it's a little bit of a sore spot for him. Perhaps you shouldn't call attention to his wretched circumstances before he's even escaped them.

Maybe he just needs to be reminded there is good in the world—and himself.

Yeah, that sounds right. Do two things at once: continue the distraction and reach out to a boy who is plainly suffering.

You move to hug him, but a horrible premonition of dread seizes your heart and stops your arms.

You remember when you tried to hug Contessa and she dodged you and gave you a taco instead.

The same taco you shattered because you didn't know your own strength.

What if you shattered this boy?

Lying is immoral, anyway.

"The truth is this," you say. "I didn’t come here to rescue you at all."

"I knew it," he said.

"You did?"

"You're here to try to kill me."

"Uh," you say. "I'm not? I already would have if I were?"

"Then . . ." His eyes narrow. "You're here because you got lost on a way to a production of _To Kill a Mockingbird_ and you were trying to bluff your way out of having to deal with a real fight."

"What? No!" You shake your head, partially because you can't believe he said such a silly thing, partially in a futile attempt to clear the images of ham costume out of your head. "I'd just fly away in that case. I'm definitely supposed to be here, talking to you. I'm a hero."

"And you're not here to kill us?"

"What—" You pause, trying to wrap your mind around this one. "What the hecking flip kind of hero would I be if I just went around killing people?"

"You don’t seem to be any kind of hero," he sneers.

You roll your eyes. Honestly, boys are just so immature. "Anyway, as I was _saying_ , I didn’t come here to rescue you. But now that I'm here and have seen for myself how wretched your working conditions are, I've decided I _am_ going to rescue you." You float towards him, gentle your voice as you would if you were talking to a scared animal, and reach out to every single ideal you possess for strength. "There is good inside of you, Jacob, and all you need to do is remember that."

"Look," Jacob says, and the word is crammed with eight times  more superciliousness than you’ve heard in your fifteen years of life combined. "Look, Scout—I think I'm going to call you Scout. Does Scout work for you? Bad costume choices and completely ineffectual in a fight."

Absolutely not! You didn’t survive cancer and befriend Knee Socks and change the world and only to be crucified to a ham costume for your entire career. The world seems to grow cold, your field of vision seems to narrow, and you seem to not be able to speak.

"My name is—" Suddenly, you’re forced to choose a name mid-sentence, and you don’t know what would make the best choice. You're tough and Jacob’s insults can’t stick to you, so maybe "Teflon"? No, that's just blatantly ripping off things you’ve seen elsewhere.

He's waiting, though, and you begin to panic.  "Alexandria," you say, hastily choosing the first nicely-named thing you can think of. Well, second, but Contessa would probably be annoyed if you took her name.

"Well," he says, and that contempt is back there. " _I've_ never heard of you."

"I just got powers this morning," you say. At least, you think it was this morning. With all the occurrences and all the teleporting and all the decision-making, it feels like it's been _months_.

His eyebrows and sneer are back in force. "And the first thing you do was decide to go after the Slaughterhouse Nine."

"Not really?" you reply. "I had cheeseburgers and did some relationships counseling and got clothes and Benadryl and ended the Cold War and ate gelato first. I didn't even know who you were until she mentioned you, and I initially thought you people were a book she didn't remember the name of."

Jacob’s eyebrows lift. "She?" he asks.

Oops. You probably weren't supposed to mention you weren’t alone.

Jacob turns around to see what’s going on behind him, but of course the answer is nothing. Contessa already took your nerd.  "Harbinger!" he cries, then turns on you. He jabs a knife at your face, but the blow does nothing. "You took him," he shouts.

"I did not," you say, irritated. Really. You know not everyone has your memory, but surely most people could remember what they were doing five minutes ago. "I've been standing here talking to you."

"I need him," he says. "He's my friend.” Your heart starts to soften in sympathy, but he keeps right on talking with his mouth and ruins it. “I can't kill King without him."

"You don't have to do that anymore," you say. "I can fly you anywhere."

"I don't want to go," he says. "I like it here. I just want King to be gone and to have my friend back."

You chew this over. Maybe there’s some sort of chemotherapy for moral outlook, because this guy is pretty far gone. Your plan is a failure; you don’t think you can persuade him.

Wait, no! That's a quitting attitude. You are Alexandria, and you do not _quit_. Quitting is _nonsense_ for people with _cancer_.

You open your mouth to try again, but Jacob starts shouting.

"King!" he bellows, at least as much as an eleven year old _can_ bellow. "Attack! Intruder! I can't hurt her and she can fly! Help!”

Uh oh.

Judging by the amount of footsteps, there is now a veritable herd of villains running up the stairs.


	15. 2.5 Mucho Basketball

** Mucho Basketball **

The door slams open before you can make your choice, and a blond man barges in. A thin, spindly man in a disgustingly ill-fitting suit follows. A blood-red monster of a man smashes through the wall next to the doorway, revealing a red-skinned woman still standing in the corridor at the top of the landing. Some kind of gas is leaking from the holes in her arms, and you back up because that's just kind of freaky.

The blond man is tall, ludicrously tall, really, and he looks pretty buff. He looks around the room once, dials in on you, and marches right up to you like he owns the place or something.

(He might, actually. You should probably apologize for breaking the window--but then again, his teammate broke the wall.)

"What did you do with Harbinger?" he demands.

You shrug and smile, trying to play it cool. You succeed because you are very cool.

"He's safe," you proclaim. Safe from having his powers exploited in the name of serial murder. "No need to get into the particulars."

"Sure," he says. "Then how about we get into _this_?"

Then he punches you in the face!

You reel, not because the blow hurt you, but from shock. This man just punched you! Without any warning or witty banter or monologuing! What kind of villain is he?

The kind of villain who punches a hero on sight and then shrieks in pain, it seems. He grabs his punching hand with the other and you can see the welts on knuckles and the cracked bone below the torn skin.

Your face is pretty strong. Ha! That'll teach him not to not monologue!

But his wounds heal before your eyes, and the thin man beside him howls in pain as the knuckles on his left hand break. The same wounds he gave himself on your face, transferred to another.

That's an interesting power. The implications for hostage taking are obvious.

"You're tough," says the tall man.

"Yeah," you say.

"I want my boy back."

"No," you say. "That would be immoral."

"Seems we're at an impasse."

"Seems so," you agree.

"I could get Gray Boy to trap you," he says casually.

"The loop one?" you ask, making yourself sound indifferent to the bone-chillingly terrifying threat. "I suppose you could . . ."

You pause dramatically. No dander-agitated sneeze interrupts you this time.

"Or?" the tall man prompts, dutifully taking his cue.

"Or we could settle this another way." Your exterior is all sangfroid, but inwardly you are leaping about with barely suppressed excitement. This is going to be _so cool_. "How about a friendly wager?"

The blond man looks wary, but Jacob's eyes light up. "Yeah?" he asks. "What wager?"

"We have a competition. Winner gets to keep Harbinger. Me versus the five of you." You smile in what you hope is a condescending way. "I'm stronger than all of you, so you deserve the numerical advantage."

"Hmm," the blond man says. "What kind of competition?

"A basketball game," you say. "And if you lose, not only do I keep Harbinger, but you all have to become heroes."

Silence follows, and stays for about ten seconds before being driven off by all five villains bursting into raucous laughter.

Rude!

"I'm serious," you snap. "If you say no, I'll just punch you until your whole entire head flies off your neck."

Can you even do that? You're not sure. But it seems like the sort of thing that sounds menacing, the sort of thing these villains would respect, at least until they're cured of their villainy.

The villains, even the big freaky red monster man, are laughing so hard they're wheezing. They are utterly incapacitated; nothing is stopping you from rounding them all up and flying them to the nearest police station.

Nothing aside from the fact you don't have handcuffs, and you owe it to the civilian police to deliver only properly secured villains.

You make a mental note to remember handcuffs the next time you go on a heroic outing. You'll remember, of course; remembering is, among having two adorable cats and wearing radical clothing and being laughed at by a bunch of serial killers, one of the things you do.

You take your basketball (what? you've always had a basketball with you. don’t you ever check your inventory?) and bounce it at the blond man. Hard. Hard enough to crack the floor. He dodges it, barely, but he stumbles into both of his red-colored teammates. Neither of them looks particularly pleased by the contact.

You retrieve the ball and set it casually spinning atop an index finger. Then you tug your sunglasses midway down the bridge of your nose and look over them at your adversaries. “Me. You nutjobs. This ball. Outside. Now.”

Things have gotten super real.

Tipoff is a cinch. Yeah, the blond man (who calls himself King, which is some royalist, unAmerican garbage) is taller than you are, but you can _fly_.

Things go amazingly, ludicrously well. Being a basketball hero is easy. The only hard part is making sure you don’t violate the rule about traveling, and you rapidly develop a workaround.

Step one: fly into the air.

Step two: bounce the ball really hard so it goes the length of the court.

Step three: fly over the heads of your foes and catch the ball.

 

Step four: slam dunk.

 

Step five: repeat.

 

 

Psychosoma, the thin man, keeps tripping over his overlarge pants as he flails up and down the court after you, and Crimson, the bloated red monster, actually shrinks the longer you play.  Jacob is just short and it's funny to see how he overreacts to losing. The seeds of the humility necessary for heroism, you think.

 

Suddenly the basketball multiplies at it flies through the air, and you aren’t sure which one is the correct one, so you grab them all. All but one exploded into an ugly-colored gas and you start coughing, dropping the genuine ball in the process. While you’re doubled over trying to clear Nyx's noxious fumes from your lungs, the Slaughterhouse scores eight times.

 

You steal the ball from them and make another sixty-four slam dunks, just to make a point.

 

"Enough!" King shouts, and the other players stop their halfhearted attempts to defend against your invincible basketball might.

 

"It looks like Alexandria here enjoys making slam dunks," he says.

 

"Obviously," you say. "It's cool and it means I'm a better player than you are. What's the score?" You pause, pretending to have to tally it up. "Oh, right. Eight hundred forty-seven to thirty-one. And it's still the first half!"

 

The five villains glare at you. Jacob is positively sulking. You smirk. “Would you like to play to the end, or just go sign up to be heroes now?”

 

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of preventing you from ever throwing a basketball. In fact, I'm willing to make sure that you never have to stop." He storms off.

 

Sore losers, you think, almost absently making a free throw from fifteen feet above the court, before the gravity of the situation catches up with you.

 

King stormed off.

 

Into the house.

 

Which has a basement.

 

Which is where Loop Kid is.

 

He's going to get Loop Kid to lock you into a permanent slam dunk.

 

Oh, no. Oh, no! Oh, no, **oh no** _ohno_ OHNO. The nightmare of nightmares is going to arrive very soon and you canNOT afford to be seen by him! You need to get out of there fast.

But not so fast you abandon your heroic duty to rescue Jacob from the wretched life circumstance has dealt him, or allow the damnable "Scout" misconception to spread. You seize him and take off.

There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and Contessa said Loop Kid works off of line of sight. Speed is the word, here, and you waste no time in getting out of dodge.

You accelerate quickly, so quickly–

Sqlllch!

–that you aren't carrying a boy anymore at all. You aren't even carrying a corpse, or much of anything else. What was once Jacob is now an awful lot of goo, and an awful lot of it is on your face and radical clothing.

You stop abruptly. Much of . . . Jacob . . . slorps . . . out of your arms and down the front of your radical pants.

Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid! You have never been so ashamed of anything in your life. Not even that time you showed up to a fight wearing a ham can come close.

You _knew_ you could hurt him. You _knew_ that you had to take flying with people who don't have your durability more slowly. You _knew_ that you could hurt people if you got careless; the taco made that clear enough.

But you didn't _act_ on that knowledge.

You were too scared of Loop Kid to think things through.

You just killed a child.

You are a coward and in your cowardice you have made a liar and a murderer out of yourself and you didn't even mean to be either of those things.

Some hero you are.

You're curled up in the air, floating a few feet above a rooftop and sobbing into your cats when Contessa finds you.

She stands next to you in silence until you wind down. As you wipe your eyes, you think you see _Contessa's_ eyes crossing. Maybe she's never seen anyone use cats as facial tissues before, or maybe she's just disgusted by you and your repulsive failure.

You know she sees Jacob's blood because you haven't cleaned it off. It's not like you're ever going to forget exactly how it feels, so why bother? Lady Macbeth's nightmares are your waking reality from here on out, and you might as well accept it.

And you were so ridiculously proud of these clothes.

Facile. All is drear.

"I wouldn't have let you bring him back with us," Contessa says.

You can't look at her.

"He was too far gone," she continues, "too in love with fighting and killing. There was no way he would change. Or even _could_ , I think. You saved lives today."

"You don't know that.”

"I do. That's part of my power, seeing how things can play out in the future. That boy was bad and would never have been good."

It doesn't matter, you think.

Or maybe you say it out loud because she says, "I know."

Does she?

"When the Doctor and I started trying to give people powers, we didn't understand how badly things could go," she says. "The first man we approached drank the vial and started to grow scales that sliced him apart from the inside out. But he wasn't dying. I knew he wouldn't get better and there wasn't anything for me to do but kill him."

You don't say anything.

"We waited two years to start again," she says. "I hope you don't wait so long to start being a hero."

Then she steps forward and slowly, gingerly wraps her arms around you.

You don't hug her back because you don't want to hurt her and you don't deserve hugs, but it's exactly what you need.


End file.
